Wolf at the Door

by Sarah Hawkswood

  ‘How can it be that you are here, just when I was going to ring the bell and call the village to church for your father’s burial?’

  ‘Ah, if you think it some miracle, Father, I must tell you that it is not so.’ William Swicol permitted himself a smile, augmented by a suitable sigh. ‘I went only as far as Alcester, and returned last evening, thinking that the ground might have yielded up enough of the sod by now that my poor father can rest at last. So it was good fortune, but not guided by Heaven.’

  ‘My son, the All Highest directs what we sinners see as “good fortune”.’ Father Hildebert smiled sweetly. ‘I am sure He guided you back this morning.’

  Catchpoll very nearly ground his teeth. He also wondered who had given William Swicol a roof over his head, or whether his declaration about not entering his father’s home had been just for show.

  ‘We shall of course remain until after the service,’ declared Bradecote, making a decision before Catchpoll happened to ‘suggest’ it. Watching how people behaved at a funeral was edifying, and he was sure that Catchpoll would be observing William Swicol exceedingly closely.

  In the event, two things were learnt from the funeral, beyond the obvious one that none of the Feckenham congregation were other than glad to see Durand Wuduweard committed to the earth. Walkelin commented afterwards that he had almost thought to see some of them spit into the grave. One was that Catchpoll was not just showing bias against William Swicol. The man hung his head and looked suitably dejected, even sniffing dolorously at the graveside, but both Bradecote and Walkelin agreed that those were but a cloak of grief and that there was something within him, as though he was struggling to contain excitement and even a mocking laugh.

  ‘He thinks he is the clever one among fools,’ grumbled Catchpoll, watching the final proceedings alongside Bradecote and Walkelin, out of the wind and close to the south wall of the church. Everyone except the priest and grieving son began to disperse as Leofric shovelled earth in a steady rhythm into the grave. ‘But that is where he falls down. We are not fools.’

  ‘And we knows where he was in Feckenham last night, judging by the looks he kept giving, and getting, from that woman with the tip of her little finger missing.’ Walkelin sounded disapproving. ‘I saw her yesterday, and she watched me from her doorway, the one beyond Agar’s.’

  ‘Aye, though my first thought was that he had been in the wuduweard’s house, and all that “I will not sleep here” had been for show,’ Catchpoll agreed, pleased at Walkelin’s degree of observation.

  ‘I think,’ Bradecote was planning as well as listening, ‘that this alters our next moves. Catchpoll, you and I will go north, keeping an eye open for the missing man of Alcester, and speak with the wuduweard in Tutnall, and you Walkelin, will see what William Swicol does next, and where he goes.’

  ‘Very good, my lord. Where and when do we meet, though? If I am following him, do I break off to return here, or to Worcester?’

  ‘A good point. I would say that today we will get no further than Beoley, because I want us to speak with the fingertip-less woman before we leave Feckenham, if she is alone, and we are riding with our eyes open for signs of a robbery and killing upon the road. I am guessing an hour for us to reach Tutnall in the morning, Catchpoll?’

  ‘Aye, my lord, and we would needs to leave at dawning if we wants to get back to Worcester afore deep-dark. The old road up through Tardebigge is a good ’un, and we could take much of it at a steady canter, though I makes no promise we won’t be calling up the gate guard to open for us when we reaches the Foregate.’

  ‘So to Worcester, my lord?’ Walkelin sought confirmation.

  ‘Yes. I cannot believe William Swicol will wander the shire. He must have somewhere to go, whether back to Alcester or elsewhere. He might leave again when you are reporting, but we can easily commence at his last “lair”. It is the best we—Look, he is on the move. Make sure he does not leave Feckenham before you. We will collect our horses and only approach the house next to Agar’s if you are not watching it like a cat at a mousehole. Off with you.’

  Dismissed, Walkelin departed, letting William Swicol leave the churchyard and walk down The Strete to turn to the leftwards in the direction of Agar’s house, and then set off at a peculiar combination of a walk and a scamper.

  ‘Good pair of legs on him,’ remarked Catchpoll, conversationally, crossing towards the hunting lodge. ‘You wait till he has knees like mine.’

  ‘Mine will be creaking before his.’

  ‘True, my lord.’

  ‘Assuming your knees make it to this woman who is likely to have sheltered William Swicol last night, do we accuse her of whoring or treat her as a generous soul offering shelter to the grieving? If he is as swicollic as you say, he could persuade a woman with sweet words.’

  ‘From the looks she gave him it was not just sweet words, my lord. I would say you can treat her as sinful much as you like, and let me be the one to “suggest” she is a poor innocent tricked by a snake like Eve and the serpent. She will see that as her escape, and it is then we gets most.’

  ‘You know, Catchpoll, I am wondering how you did this when Fulk de Crespignac was undersheriff. Did he follow your commands?’

  ‘Well, that is no command, my lord, more like a gentle suggestin’, and as for the lord de Crespignac, he was never as comfortable in English as the Foreign, and I would have to be both harsh and then soft all by myself, which was none so easy sometimes.’

  ‘So I have my uses.’

  ‘You do, my lord.’

  Bradecote choked on a laugh.

  ‘Should we ready Walkelin’s horse, Catchpoll? It occurs to me that his quarry may take the pony, and however good a pair of legs Walkelin has on him, they will not match a horse. Either he will come for it in a rush or not at all, and if so we can ask the servant Osric to unsaddle the beast and keep it until claimed.’

  ‘A good thought, my lord. I will saddle his animal first.’

  Bradecote could not but feel a little smug when Walkelin arrived, breathless, just as Catchpoll was bridling his own mount.

  ‘He has the pony, then?’

  ‘Not sure, my lord, but he is headin’ back towards Wich and will pass the wuduweard’s stable. I dares not miss him.’

  ‘If he remains on foot, you can send your horse back here. I have spoken to Osric.’ Bradecote patted the shaggy rump of Walkelin’s idle horse.

  ‘And follow with caution, Young Walkelin. Remember that William Swicol is used to folk being keen to get hold of him,’ warned Catchpoll.

  ‘I will, Serjeant.’ With which, Walkelin dragged his reluctant steed from the warmth of the stable.

  Walkelin had suffered a few moments of panic that his quarry had tied the pony outside the woman’s house and was about to simply mount and trot off towards Alcester, glad to leave Feckenham as soon as the funeral rites were over. Walkelin did not fancy either following on foot and hoping the pony was not swift, or haring to the hunting lodge and scrambling to get his own slug of a beast saddled and moving. He offered up a swift prayer to the Holy Virgin, and another of thanks that she had listened, as he saw William Swicol look to both left and right and then enter the house to the left of the home of Agar. There was no pony tethered within view. He hung back and waited, concealed by the corner of a dwelling with ageing thatch, though being inconspicuous in a village where everyone knew each other was not easy. The adults were all aware that the lord Sheriff’s men were among them, but to the small, tow-haired boy who espied him he was a potentially dangerous threat.

  ‘Who are you?’ demanded the child, in an aggressive treble.

  ‘Walkelin of Worcester,’ answered Walkelin, promptly, but in a whisper. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am Alf, son of Beocca. I live here. Are you a thief?’

  ‘No, Alf, I am not. I am a thief-taker, and I am being all quiet in case a thief comes this way.’ Walkelin thought this a reasonable answer to a child who could not lay claim to more than seven s
ummers. ‘Go and play.’

  Alf did not look entirely convinced, but then another high-pitched voice called him to see a dead weasel, which he evidently decided was more interesting than a live Walkelin. He looked at Walkelin as if imprinting him upon his memory, and then turned and ran away. Walkelin breathed a sigh of relief and hoped no other inquisitive infants would see him.

  He waited, but not long enough for his feet to feel like lumps of ice. The door of the cott opened, the woman peered out and looked about, then waved an arm within. William Swicol emerged with a small sack in his hand, kissed the woman swiftly upon the cheek and then more lingeringly upon the lips, which made her pull back in mock horror, and then turned to take the Salt Way towards Wich. This meant he would pass the stable where the wuduweard’s pony should be, and Walkelin still had to make a decision whether to remain on foot or run to fetch his mount. He chose the latter, and raced to the hunting lodge, where he was both relieved and surprised to find his horse already tacked up. He assumed the idea had been Serjeant Catchpoll’s.

  Deciding it was easier to kick his beast into action rather than drag it, Walkelin mounted as soon as he was outside the lodge gate, and headed westward. Opposite the wuduweard’s house a man was working a pole-lathe in an open-fronted shed. A newly turned bowl lay on a sack beside him. Walkelin hailed him.

  ‘Friend, has William the wuduweard’s son passed by?’ Walkelin’s voice had urgency but the response was calm.

  ‘Aye. You have barely missed him.’

  ‘Has he taken the pony from the stable?’

  ‘He went straight into the house and a short while came back out, but he did not go to the stable, because the stable is empty. He took the pony when he left after staying with Father Hildebert, and I saw him come across the ford on foot about dusk two days ago. Look, that is him, along the road there.’ The turner pointed to a figure too far away to be identified from the back, but less than three hundred yards distant towards the ford.

  ‘Thank you. I would ask if you would take my horse back to Osric at the hunting lodge and tell him it will be collected soon. I am upon the lord Sheriff’s business.’

  ‘Aye, I knows that. You can trust me with the horse.’ The turner stepped from his lathe and took the reins from Walkelin as he dismounted.

  ‘Thank you.’ Walkelin flashed the man a smile, and set off briskly towards Wich, confident of keeping within distant sight of William Swicol, but also wondering how to remain covert on a rather straight trackway.

  When undersheriff and serjeant, leading their horses, approached Agar’s house, they had no need to ask upon which side lived the woman with the missing fingertip. Agar was standing well back while his wife and the woman clawed at each other, screaming insults. Winefrid had already dragged the other woman’s coif from her head, leaving a sandy-brown, dishevelled braid in open view, but herself had a bleeding lip. Bradecote shouted at them to part, in a commanding tone that achieved absolutely nothing.

  ‘Drag your wife off her, Agar.’ Bradecote turned his attention to the helpless husband.

  ‘Not sure I can, my lord, and not sure I blames my Win, seeing as what that whore has done.’ Agar mixed apology with justification.

  Bradecote swore under his breath, and stepped forward boldly. Catchpoll screwed up his face as if he dare not look, and sighed as the undersheriff wound a hand in the plait and dragged it, very effectively pulling the woman backwards. This, however, did not stop Winefrid, who screeched, and swung her fist wildly as she lunged forward, missing her opponent, but striking Bradecote on his long nose. His eyes watered, and the injured nose began to drip blood. At this juncture, Agar, fearing his wife might suffer an awful penalty for assaulting a lord, cried out to her to have a care, and Catchpoll grabbed the still-clenched fist and twisted hand and wrist together, so that Winefrid was forced to her knees.

  ‘Enough, woman,’ he growled, and thrust her, falling onto all fours, towards Agar. ‘Get her indoors.’

  Agar obeyed instantly, leaving Catchpoll looking resignedly at his superior.

  ‘You will not do that again, my lord. When two women fight, first rule is to let ’em keep goin’ until one or both gives up, or is too badly hurt to carry on. Never get between ’em when the red mist is in their eyes. Women fights dirtier than any man.’

  ‘Now you tell me,’ mumbled Bradecote, letting go of his captive to pinch his bleeding nose.

  ‘You went in too fast for me to stop you,’ explained Catchpoll, and turned his attention to the dishevelled woman with the missing fingertip. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Sæthryth,’ the woman sniffed, and blinked away tears, ‘Widow of Beocca.’

  ‘Then we goes inside, and you tells the lord Undersheriff here all he wants to know, because he is not in a humour to listen to “nothing to do with me”.’ He took her by the arm and half propelled her to her door, with Bradecote, feeling embarrassed more than anything, following in their wake. He was glad to get inside, where no other villagers might see him. He ceased clamping his nostrils shut, somewhat gingerly, and licked the blood from his upper lip.

  ‘William Swicol was here last night.’ It was not a question.

  ‘Who?’ Sæthryth looked confused, and Bradecote realised that the name Catchpoll used for the man was not what he called himself.

  ‘William, son of Durand.’

  She coloured, and nodded.

  ‘When did he come, and how long has he been a visitor to this house?’ Bradecote wanted the questions kept simple, and Catchpoll nodded approvingly at the second element of the question.

  ‘Quite late yesterday, as it got dark. He said he had left his pony in the wuduweard’s stable, and then he came to me.’

  ‘And for how long has he been “coming to you”? You know what Feckenham thinks of him.’ Bradecote kept eye contact with her.

  ‘They are wrong. He was … a little wicked, perhaps, when he was younger, but he is a good man now, and has always come and gone from me carefully, to protect my reputation. That is being thoughtful.’

  Catchpoll thought it simply showed crafty caution, but resisted the urge to say so.

  ‘I knows what it is like to be kept out. I comes from Wich, and doors closed to me after Beocca died. Feckenham folk judges easy and have hard hearts.’

  ‘And how long is “always”? How did he …’ Bradecote, who wanted to get back to William Swicol, paused, thinking that ‘seduce’ might make her bridle too much. ‘How did he woo you into this relationship?’

  ‘It began about a year ago.’

  ‘And Winefrid next door only found out today?’ Catchpoll was too stunned to keep his disbelief to himself, but earned a warning look from Bradecote.

  ‘He has always been very careful, and warned me to hide my feelings, but today, when he had to bear the grief of burying his father—Ah, today I could not pretend I do not feel for the poor man.’

  Bradecote wondered if the woman was blind or just foolish, but then attraction, love, showed no respect for sense.

  ‘And how did this begin?’

  ‘I had been to Alcester to sell a few geese at the Michaelmas fair, and turned my ankle as I was coming home. He was coming this way on his pony, and offered to take me up behind him. I asked to be set down before the village, being modest,’ and Sæthryth lowered her eyes, ‘and he laughed but agreed. We talked as we came along, and I felt sorry for him. He has a sweet nature, and life has not been kind to him.’

  ‘Him?’ Catchpoll snorted.

  ‘Being motherless, and his father sometimes rough.’ She sighed. ’He has never been rough. Never lifted a hand to me, not once, and I couldn’t even say that of my Beocca,’ she crossed herself, ‘a good man and husband.’

  ‘You say he had a pony. Was it not his father’s?’ Bradecote was curious.

  ‘Ah, well he had borrowed it for the day, thanks to Durand being in a good mood. More often he was not, and that was how he first came to my door, one eventide when he and Durand had had a falling out.
It was nice just to talk, for a hearth can be lonely.’

  Telling Sæthryth that William Swicol was a slippery eel and not to be trusted was not going to help, so Bradecote did not waste his breath. They left her to anoint her bruises and wonder how to avoid her outraged neighbour. After all, Winefrid had made it quite public what she thought of her nephew, and for Sæthryth to then play the wanton with him next door was a studied insult.

  Chapter Seven

  Walkelin was far enough behind William Swicol not to be noticed as long as William did not turn around, but that left Walkelin very nervous. Following someone in a busy town was within his scope, but this was totally different. The Salt Way showed the work of the Romans still, being remarkably straight for much of its length, and whilst an ambush from the undergrowth was easy enough, following a man was not. Walkelin tried hard, taking a course that hopped over the trackside ditches and meandered into the bushes so much he would have looked drunken to an observer.

  William Swicol was not an observer, but a man used to being followed by people after his blood. It gave him a sixth sense that told him of Walkelin’s presence, even without looking about him. He forded the Bow Brook and after no more than a furlong stopped, as if to remove a stone from his shoe. As he bent down, he was able to give a very swift glance back, between his knees, that made him smile.

  So Catchpoll had sent his apprentice ferret to follow in his tracks. Well, his would be very hard to follow, but the game would be entertaining. He slowed his pace, then carefully, in as much as he made it clear among the fallen leaves that he had done so, he headed off the track and into the forest on the northern side of the road. He had to make sure that he was easy to track until such time as he could ensure his pursuer would have no idea how to return to the road. The apprentice was a Worcester man, so it would not take long. He made his way with enough broken twigs and alerted wildlife so that Walkelin, gaining a little confidence that he really could track a man in forest, followed as if led upon a rope. William approached a large oak tree he knew well. The Trinity Oak divided into three trunks of near equal girth, and was of great age. His smile grew. He would now lead the apprentice serjeant round and round and back to this spot so that he would know he had been tricked, and know that he was lost. This could be done swiftly, but it was so much more pleasing to take his time and leave the man lost in the fading light. He had all day. William rightly guessed that a town man would not feel at all happy in a forest, alone, in the dark.